


King Margo's Greatest Truth

by NerdsNeedLoveToo



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, High King Margo, It's rated for swearing because it's the Magicians and there's swearing, M/M, MagiciansSummer18, Please forgive the level of sappiness as I'm new to this fandom, Prompt Truth, There may be major character death, but it's not awful, generations, just give it a shot, kind of sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 17:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15272331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdsNeedLoveToo/pseuds/NerdsNeedLoveToo
Summary: She’d once said she’d never really loved anything or anyone. Not really. Not until one day, when she was wrong.





	King Margo's Greatest Truth

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own The Magicians, and I hope no one is offended that I'm borrowing them. I just really adore them. Also, I really appreciate concrit. I'm always up for learning something new.

To be a magician, you had to be fucked up one way or another, Margo once mused. She couldn’t name a single Brakebill student that hadn’t been completely screwed up. Not Eliot. Not Penny. Not Q. Not Kady. Sure as hell not Alice or even affable Josh. Don’t even get her started on Julia, that self-important, goddess-not goddess bitch. Seriously, what the fuck was up with that chick?

But Margo reveled in that kind of chaos. She lived for the sheer drama most of the time. The adoration she showed Eliot proved that well enough, as she aided and abetted his more insane ideas. That she’d pulled Q into the web of what she called family showed her desire to build something to love, even when she’d held herself back. For as much as she might show power, she felt weak within. Her anger existed to protect her heart. But it isolated her heart, too. In her mind, it kept her from loving.

These last years as high king, she spent most of her days ruling. Nights she spent mostly alone in her chambers, missing her loved ones.

“Your highness,” her man-servant Breck, murmured, helping her unbutton her dress. There’d been a day when she would’ve done everything in her power to flirt with every man around. Not that she would’ve flirted with this particular young man, all things considered. Now, she just sighed as gentle fingers brushed over aging flesh at each button. In them she felt only gentle warmth, and was grateful.

“My dear,” she sighed as the last button released. “A drink, perhaps.”

He would know what kind. After all, this was their ritual. It would soon be followed as her man helped tumble her gray hair from its bun, and then brush it for her. He would be gentle and kind, like the most intimate friend. Perhaps that was what he’d become in the years since she’d lost Quentin, then Eliot. Even Josh had passed one night, quite unexpectedly, in a drug-induced haze. Margo had to smile, because Josh had gone out with his trademark grin, an attractive young elf in his bed, and a bong in his hand. He’d been sixty-eight and went out the way he lived.

“Do you miss them tonight, m’lady?” Breck asked softly, bringing a drink to Margo who’d dropped her dress to the floor and slipped into the silken robe. He helped her into the large armchair in front of the smoldering fireplace and set the drink nearby on a table. The heat warmed her, and she nestled into the seat as Breck began to pull pins and brush at her long hair. Softly, he added in his soft low voice, “Your eyes are distant tonight.”

“I miss them every damn night, kid,” she lamented (never mind he was in his late twenties). She tightly gripped the crystal stem and downed half the Fillorian wine in one swig. “Every. Damn. Day. Those rat bastards left me here without them. They abandoned me.”

But Breck knew the harsh words hid an aching core. For he’d known her all his life, and made a study of the woman.

For Breck was more than servant. More than confidant. His mother had gladly walked in the shadow of their great, golden lady for so very many years until taken too soon. Arielle Waugh, child of Eliot Waugh and Fen, had been raised by more than just parents. Young Ari had gotten her sense of duty from Fen, her snark from Eliot, her neurotic tendencies from Quentin, and her no-bullshit attitude from Margo.

Margo had adored the child, hated the teen, and done her best to corrupt the young woman they all raised.

For quite a time, Fen lamented the lack of suitor for her only child, who in her thirties seemed dedicated to remaining a spinster. Boy did the shit hit the fan when _that_ changed.

The bitch had run off and eloped with a hot-as-fuck butcher from a neighboring village who did nothing to hide his massive hands and bulging crotch. She’d left behind a note and a bottle of moonshine for her Papa, knowing she’d be forgiven. Eliot had tracked his baby girl down, made her apologize to Q, who hadn’t quit crying, and then told her not to get knocked up. Then he had dragged Quentin away in hopes that his best friend’s tears would _finally_ stop, because if they didn’t Eliot was going to join him. Or silence him with a spell.

Then Ari had shown up twelve months later, smiling ear-to-ear, and holding a baby boy named Rupert Teddy Waugh. Eliot and Q had wept great grieving tears, and only Margo had understood why. For they only spoke of the beauty of all life with Margo. Not too often, though, for it broke their hearts. Secretly, it broke Margo’s too, and made her wish she could have what they had. But she knew the wall around her heart would not be breached, and so she delved back into ruling when someone shoved at it.

Suffice it to say, Margo was not surprised when the boy was nicknamed after Eliot’s best drinking buddy because the men just couldn’t bring themselves to replace one Rupert with another. 

“My baby boy,” Margo said, leaning back in her chair as she sipped a little at her remaining drink.

Breck settled on the ground at her feet and laid his head in her lap. He’d so loved this position as a boy, letting his lady comfort him. His Godmama had the gentlest hands. These hands would wipe away all kinds of hurts in his youth. They’d also bash the shit out of anyone who made him cry.

“My beautiful boy,” Margo murmured, a tear slipping down her face as she remembered the accident that claimed both Fen and Arielle. 

Breck had been seven. There’d been an argument. The cart had careened. The last words heard were, “Well, fuck.”

Surprisingly, it had been Fen’s voice.

“I do miss your mother. I do miss your grandparents.”

She paused running her fingers through his curly, brown hair, causing him to tilt his head back and look up into her eyes. The smile didn’t light her face. Rather, it settled something close to perfect contentedness in her features when she added, “Your grandpapas were given the greatest joy in raising you.”

The praise made his heart swell, and he smiled. He knew he reminded her of Eliot, with his dark curls and long lashes. He loved seeing adoration in her eyes, for she was as much mother to him as his grandpapas had been fathers.

“I’m going to miss you well and truly, Godmama,” he said, and knew it to be true.

They’d both known it was coming. It was why the high king had been spending so much time in court, pouring over contracts and disputes. She’d been dedicating a dozen hours a day for weeks to hear the petitions of her realm. Then again, she always had shown great dedication to those she ruled. But there’d been something tired and…final as of late.

He’d known it was coming – these words of his beautiful king. Even at nearly ninety, she remained regal. Competent. Beloved by Fillory. Adored and worshipped quietly by him.

He also knew that she’d hidden a great truth from the people she served. She even hid it from herself.

Breck’s grandfather told him once upon a time (when the quiet magician was totally drunk off his ass) that Margo confessed to him that she’d never really loved anyone – not purely and absolutely. That she wasn’t capable. It was funny how wrong she was, and that she was the only one who didn’t see it. It’s why Grandpapa Quentin always called it King Margo’s Greatest Lie – as if was a military operation or a title to a bad book.

Breck sat up on his knees, wrapped his arms around the waist of the woman who’d been so much a part of making him a man – of teaching him to be a man – and felt her hand still on his shoulder. And then it slipped away. As her last breath escaped, he whispered, “All the creatures of Fillory love you, Godmama. Almost as much and as purely as you loved us. For that is the truth – you’ve loved us all absolutely. Even if you were a bit bitchy at times.”

\--------------------------------------------------

Years later, Breck lay stretched out on the sofa, holding his young daughter in his arms as she sniffled through her cold. She’d been testy these last days, ill as she was, and it broke him a little to see her this way. So this day he would not be the elected the high king of Fillory. This day, he would be a father and love his child, much in the vein that so many loved him.

“Will you tell me a story, Papa?”

He paused for a moment, pulled the child close to his heart, and thought of the woman after whom she’d been named. He thought of his king’s loyalty, her sass, her duty. He thought of her great heart, with its glass walls that had been broken and swept away.

He knew just the tale.

 


End file.
